


The White Flowers of Alicante

by Cassandra_E_Liewise



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Cassandra Clare - Freeform, Shadowhunters - Freeform, Spin Off, Valentine's childhood, the mortal instruments - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 03:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2176095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassandra_E_Liewise/pseuds/Cassandra_E_Liewise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a dark past to hide behind dark deeds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The White Flowers of Alicante

**Author's Note:**

> Yes so, I wrote this a LONG while back, ironically before I even finished the books so at the time I did not know Valentine's mother was called Seraphina.... Anyways here is my personal theory on where his hate for the downworlders started. Enjoy!

The wind blew cold on the East River that night. It cried as it bled through the small cracks of the rusted metal ship. But the noise was almost null compared to that infernal, rhythmic, single drop leaking from the pipe overhead. The room was cold and wet, the oil slick metal walls darkened the surroundings in a way that the only source of light coming from the small circular window, blinded me. It was at water level, the river acting like a black mirror to the New York lights, a city that never slept. Like me. On the icy floor slept the werewolf girl in an almost peaceful manner, her features more prominent under the moonlight. The cuffs slightly rattled as she tried to move to make herself comfortable, and I took a slight, almost undetectable, step back, allowing the shadows to engulf me. I should be on deck, should be preparing for the ritual, but I just could not take my eyes off that animal, that beast, that thing. If I did not have a duty, a purpose for my actions, I would slit her throat right now. No, death would be too easy, too sweet. No, she had to suffer, suffer like her kind made me suffer. Maybe some silver dust, or maybe I could inject wolfsbane into her veins, hear her scream, watch her Change, scoop her pretty little wolf eyes out with a silver spoon.   
And yet, it wasn’t enough. None of my endless scenarios would make her suffer enough to know my pain, the pain that cursed me for so many years, the pain that made me stronger, that made me who I am. I could never forgive, I could never forget. Nightmares kept me awake at night and it so happened, that they also tortured me while awake. Tonight was one of those nights.

It took me back to Idris, my home, on the outskirts of Alicante, where my family resided for generations, in the Morgenstern Mansion, which belonged to the most prestigious and loved family in the entire Nephilim world.   
It was spring. I remember because the Snow Lilies were in full bloom, and if I closed my eyes I could still feel the warm sun on my skin, could still smell that spicy almost peppery scent that the flowers gave out. “Valentine” The voice echoed in my head as if a church bell had been struck inside my skull “Valentine!” the voice called out again “There you are my little angel. Hiding in the flowers again are we?” 

Etoile Starsky Morgenstern, my mother, was beautiful. Her hair was of a bleached blonde, almost white under the sun, and fell long on her bare shoulders, like a golden waterfall on marble stone. Her eyes, were of the colour of the midnight sky, a deep black which seemed had no end, which blended with her irises, but somehow still sparkled like stars. My mother’s striking resemblance to me is what made me shun my reflection for so many years. She picked up what was the five-year old me and carried me home “Mama” I would ask “Where is father?”  
I’ll never forget how suddenly my mother’s face changed expression and went blank. If I could go back, if only I could stop myself from saying those words, maybe, her final memories would have been of happiness, not worry. “Dad has gone… hunting” I was only five then but I knew well what hunting meant: Downworlders or Demons. My father had not yet returned since the night before and I knew my mother was worried. But she never imagined. She never could.

That evening, as twilight began to settle and the sun just peeked from behind the hills, there was a loud banging on the front door. My mother and I were in the library, she, reading, and me, perfecting my slingshot, both of us in front of the warm fire. At first, we were both in shock, frozen, unable to move. Soon, a second banging on the door came, this time more violent, and accompanied by a growl: “Etoile!” the growl became more fierce “Damn it woman, open this door before I break it down!” My mother got up and pushed me to my feet. She shoved me quickly in the small closet under our staircase “Valentine mon petit, whatever you do, do not leave this closet you hear me? Do not say a word” she whispered as her soft hands cupped my face, which must have seemed more confused than scared. Her eyes lingered on me just a little longer, a mix of fear and love in her coal black pupils “Be brave my little angel” She kissed me on the forehead and shut the small closet door. I was in the dark, I could not see, but I could hear. I swallowed hard as I heard the front door slam open, followed by a growl. “David” my mother said, a sort of plea in her unsteady voice “David, it’s me, please try to remember!” Something crashed on the ground, probably a vase “David I love you I’m your wife! We’ll figure this out!” She screamed. The growl became an angry bark, like one of a mad, rabid dog. I heard my mother let out one single scream, furniture being moved, clothes being torn, bones snapping, broken. I clasped my ears in my hands trying to do as I was told, not to scream, not to move, not to make a sound. And then, silence. I was panting now, out of breath, as if I had been running for miles. And that was when I smelt it. That pungent, strong smell of rust and copper. I lifted my boot and I noticed that from under the door a deep red liquid had seeped under it: Blood. Now I was really scared. I sucked in and held my breath, as I slowly turned the knob, and opened my door. My heart stopped. The front door was hanging on one hinge, furniture, lying on the floor, priceless vases, shattered in thousands of pieces. And then, a few feet from where I was standing, lay in a pool of scarlet thick blood which stained the white marble floor, a body whose arms and legs were twisted in a non-human way, like a ragdoll, ribcage torn open. The once beautiful porcelain face was now torn with deep cuts, and her white hair sucked in the blood like a sponge. My mother. I gasped, tasting the salty tears I didn’t know I was shedding, fearing that if I let go of the door handle, I would fall, unable to ever get up. I almost did, fall, as I saw the faint, weak raising and lowering of her open chest. She was alive, and her black eyes looked straight at me, shedding one, and single tear. As I was about to throw myself to her, I froze at the sound of slow, lingering footsteps. I swallowed hard as a figure appeared from the shadows. He stood, bloody and with his Shadowhunter gear torn, revealing his bare skin, that, other than the blood, seemed as untouched as a baby’s skin, not even a scar or rune left.   
His body was human, but his face was not. David Morgenstern, my father, once a brave and compassionate Shadowhunter, now had his lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing his pointed wolf teeth. His ears were those of an animal, furry and black, and his eyes, which used to be of a deep blue, were now golden and non-human. 

I wanted to run, I wanted to scream, but our eyes were locked on each other, leaving us at a stalemate. I noticed, as I stared, that beyond those burning yellow eyes was no longer my father, there was no soul, only savagery, only an animal. For some unearthly strength, I managed to tear my eyes off it and slide my gaze to my mother. With her last bit of strength, she managed to move her lips as to form one final word: Run. Somehow I found the strength, somehow I found the courage, somehow I darted through the library, past the kitchen and out the back door into the fields. I ran, ran as fast and as far as I could, moving the tall grass out of my way. I never stopped and I never looked back. All of a sudden something got under my feet, a rock maybe, or an exposed root, and I plunged forward, rolling a few feet on the ground until I finally stopped for the first time in what had seemed like ages. I was right: Once I fell, it really was impossible to get up. Suddenly, I remembered that there was such a thing as breathing, and I took a deep, long gasp as my whole body ached, my head feeling light and absent, like it was not connected to my own neck. I remember looking up at the night sky, stars sparkling like diamonds, like shards of broken glass under the moonlight. I remember, how badly I wanted to cry, but the tears just would not come. I remember the taste of mud in my mouth, the smell of blood from before, or was it from the injuries when I fell? And I remember the look in my father’s eyes. No, not my father, the werewolf, the thing.

I was found two days later by an old couple, while still lying on the ground. They told me I screamed and scrambled at their mere touch, until I finally fainted of exhaustion. I had discovered, once I had regained my strength, that my father had been arrested and I had been presumed dead as my mother really was.   
I hadn’t said a word after what had happened. Days became months, months became years, and still I could not find a reason to talk, to say a word. Whether it was out of anger or desperation, I do not know, but then again, there is only a fine line that divides the two. Eventually, what had been a tragedy, had become old news, soon a memory only to be then finally forgotten. But that did not mean my life had stopped. At the age of 15 I enrolled into Shadowhunting School. It was obvious that no one knew who I was, not even at the sound of my name being called out. All those people, training for the sake of it, not really having a purpose, not really having a reason. What was it all for? And then it hit me. I did have a reason to speak, I did have a reason to live: I had to protect the ones who cannot protect themselves. I discovered how to use my emotions to my advantages, how to use my charm to acquire friends, to acquire allies. 

And then, the verdict finally came. After rotting in prison for more than what a human life could last, my mother’s murderer was at last going to be sentenced to death. It was finally happening, I was finally going to get some justice, some closure, and maybe some revenge. That thing deserved to die, not only for the murder of my mother, but of my father as well. But my victory did not last long, for a few months later, the Accords were signed, that peace between Downworlders and Shadowhunters, and, as a celebration, all prisoners, were to be released. My anger became rage, my loyalty towards the Clave snapped, and so did something inside of me. I was no longer the Valentine Morgenstern that served the Angel, I, served myself.  
What followed was what you would expect. The Circle and I, managed to track down, a couple of months later, the werewolf pack I was interested in, and I avenged my mother’s death by chopping the head clean off the wolfs neck before it had a chance to Change back into a human. For no one could know, no one can know who he was, what happened that night, I would not and cannot show any weakness that they could use against me, not until I have fulfilled my new purpose: Killing my mother’s murderer was not enough, I will not allow anyone else to ever get hurt again, no mother will have to lose their child, no man nor woman lose their loved one, no child, their parents. They all had to pay, all Downworlders, none were innocent.

I opened my eyes. I reached into my pocket and pulled out something I have been keeping with me for as long as I can remember. I let my fingers trace the now dry petals and fragile stem of the white flower which grew in my garden so long ago: The last Snow Lilly I had left from Alicante. I brought it close to my lips, and let that peppery scent fill my lungs as I breathed in. The werewolf girl was still lying on the metal pavement, still sleeping peacefully “not for long” I whispered to the wind. Then I gently let the flower find the bottom of my pocket as I slowly turned my back and moved up the stairs to fulfill my duty, to fulfill, my destiny.


End file.
